


Private Entry

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he sits in a cafe updating his blog, he is surprised by the appearance of someone unexpected.   And no, that 'someone' is not Sherlock.</p><p>****<b>I apologise if this bumps the story to the top again; I revised the summary and made a few minor edits.****</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Entry

**Author's Note:**

> If this looks familiar, that's because this is a revised scene from one of my WIP's. The setting and POV have been changed, but the effect should be the same. I wanted to see how it would work as a one-shot, and I was curious to see how this version would be received. Just trying to flex my writing muscles a bit. Thank you for the indulgence.

 

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** 15 December, 2012 **

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Private Entry

  


_Well.  It’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything here, and this one will remain private.  I don‘t know if I ever will get back to publicly posting anything.  Nothing seems to happen anymore._

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_I’m still not acclimated to the London weather, it seems.  All those years in the Afghan desert must have convinced my body that sun and dry air should be the norm.  The dampness likes to insinuate itself into my bones at the most inopportune times._

_It’s not just the weather anymore that I find… unsettling about the city.  It seems to lack vitality and purpose now, the very things that used to make my blood sing.  Was it really only six months ago that I had possessed everything that I could ever want?  Now it’s just… gone.  I think I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that the miracle I had begged for is never going to happen._

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_I’ll be the first to admit that, after his suicide, I rapidly spiralled out of control.  My bouts of drinking could have rivalled a certain family member's.  It was only after having woken up in a pool of my own vomit for the third time that I decided it was time to return to therapy.   Yes, therapy.  I can hear him in my head even now, in that distinctive voice of his._

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__** Tedious.  Unnecessary. You didn't need it then, and you don't need it now. ** _ _

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_ Whenever this happens, I shrug it aside as best I can.  He’s dead, he can no longer tell me his opinions on the way I live my life.   At any rate, it seems to be helping, a bit.  I’ve even started going to group therapy; been meeting some people who can relate to what I’ve been going through.  I can’t tell people the whole story, of course.  Who would believe me?  But I’ve found a touch of solace among people who can understand the crushing grief that has been consuming me.   _

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_ It surprised me, at first, the effect his loss had on me.  I’ve been a soldier, both in Afghanistan and London – both of them battlefields, in their own way.   I’ve lost friends before, many of them good friends, many of them close friends.  I know what it’s like to have a band-of- brothers’ bond, a comrade-in-arms mentality, where everyone is willing to both die and kill for each other.  My life had been saved more than once, and I saved more than one life.   _

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_ But somehow, this was different.  He found me when I was broken, and he breathed life back into me.  It was just the two of us, living and working together, for the longest time.   My life started to revolve around only him, and he quickly became my best friend.   _

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_  I have lost many people to death, but I have never before lost a best friend. _

  


** Sentiment. **

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** _

_ Yes.  Sentiment indeed.   _

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_ Well, at any rate, I think I’m going to try and move forward.  I leave for my group therapy in a few minutes, and I’ve met someone there.  She’s petite, with short russet hair and sparkling blue eyes.  Her name is Mary, and she’s an au pair.   A year ago she lost her husband of just three months to a rare form of leukaemia.  So not recently bereaved, but still struggling with grief and its aftermath.  Enough commonality without taking advantage of her in a weakened state. _

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_ Good God, I’m starting to sound like  _ __ him.  

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_ Anyway, tonight I’m going to ask her out.  No reason not to, and there’s no longer any mad genius around intent on sabotaging me.  Could be good. _

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_ So, until next time.  Who knows, maybe I’ll make the next entry public. _

 

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He leaned back in his chair, legs thrust out in front of him and arms raised above his head as he let out a drawn-out yawn.  He rolled the kinks out of his shoulder as he settled back in his chair, one hand reaching for his coffee and the other snapping his laptop shut.  He glanced around the café as he took a sip, grimacing at the bitter taste.  Really, London coffee left a lot to be desired.   The cup was set off to the side as he stuffed his computer into its case and slung it around his shoulder.  Reaching for his cane, he started to rise from his chair, his eyes meeting those of the person just entering the building.   The man nodded politely at him before making his way to the counter.  

  


He froze as recognition dawned on him.  His legs turned to jelly as he forced himself to sit back down.  He had never expected to cross this man’s path again, although he really shouldn’t have been surprised.  They did reside in the same city, after all.  

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The last time he had seen this man, it had been through the sights of his sniper rifle. The man he had been ordered to kill if Sherlock Holmes didn't take a swan dive off of St. Bartholomew's rooftop.

  


The man known to have been Holmes's 'heart', otherwise known as Dr. John H. Watson.


End file.
